


Focal Point

by musicmillennia



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Cadavers, Dissociation, Established Relationship, Guide Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Sentinel Watson, Sentinel/Guide, Synesthesia, Watson's Here He's Queer and He's Tired, Zoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26230264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia
Summary: Watson zones.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 154





	Focal Point

**Author's Note:**

> I've read and written my share of Sentinel Holmes. Let's shake it up. Because why not amirite
> 
> it's really late, and i'm a synesthe who can't heckin describe some stuff without using their condition and Sentinels mix their senses a lot right?????

Poisoned, undoubtedly. _Which_ poison is the question that's been haunting Watson the past three days. He has read and reread his collection of medical texts, consulted with colleagues—who still shake their head at his choice of, as they dub it, _recreation_ —yet the toxin is either too obscure or, as Holmes hypothesizes, an entirely new compound. The latter idea eats further into Watson's sleep.

Watson forcefully stops his tapping fingers against the table, upon which a fresh cadaver lies. He has long since decided not to ask how Holmes convinces Lestrade to release them to the dubious care of Baker Street.

The thought snags—he has not seen Holmes in quite some time, or what seems to be quite some time. There is no violin humming, nor even measured pacing, though he feels he's near. Perhaps Holmes has taken his advice for once and sought his bed.

Watson grimaces. Unlikely.

A scent distracts him. It is nothing he has not smelled before on the previous victims, but now he detects something _familiar_ in it. Snapping to attention, Watson shuts his eyes tightly and stretches his senses. If he can identify at least one element of the poison, he and Holmes can find the answer. Devastated families will have the answer.

He follows the trail. Purple suffuses his palette, particles floating about in it like lightning bugs in a jar. He does not recognize the bugs' origins, but this color, he knows it. He's seen this exact shade in another scent. If he could only remember where.

He leans closer over the cold face and takes a deeper breath. The purple fog thickens, bugs multiplying. It dances farther down the trail, and Watson must find its end. He hears the echoes of this corpse's grieving husband and quickens his pace.

He knows not how long he's been walking when cool fingers grip the back of his neck. The shock of it startles him; belatedly, he realizes that his mind did not initially register _it_ as _touch_. There is only _scent_. Everything else is—distant, he supposes is the term. Unusual.

Or, perhaps not.

Watson's Doctor's brain whispers _Z_ _oning_ the instant he hears a quiet and firm, "I think that's quite enough, old boy."

He is swept from the trail into an organized whirlwind. All senses are engaged here, yet employed with such exactness that Watson cannot help but focus on them. Running thoughts emanate from the—Holmes'—fingers, chaotic and logical, steadfast in their unmatched speed. Utterly familiar, a well-loved coat.

Watson opens his eyes to find Holmes tugging him from the room, away from the body. He must make a noise of protest, for Holmes replies, "You will not accomplish anything in this state, Watson. Off to bed with you."

Through the dream in his limbs, Watson manages to croak, "Hypocrite."

"To whom do you refer? I only recall remarking upon _your_ state. There now, down you go," sitting Watson on the bed, "there's a chap."

Holmes is disheveled as usual, eyes bright in his calm expression. He has, of course, been relishing the challenge. But there is concern that nears a boiling point, potent enough to fill the marrow of Watson's ribs, forcing him to take conscious breaths.

After a moment, Watson presses forward, until his forehead rests against Holmes' heartbeat. He counts. Faster than the average human male, but within normal range for Holmes. Watson turns his head and sighs as his ear seems to remember its own existence. Holmes' hand does not move from his neck.

Many believe Sherlock Holmes to be incapable of being a proper Guide. When they first met, Watson had witnessed many a Sentinel cringe as Holmes jarred them back to the present for interviews, utterly uncaring of the side-effects until Watson harped on their importance, as well as the importance of basic human decency. But Watson is a man of action, a problem-solver, albeit not in the same way as his friend. When Holmes' brilliance becomes erratic, Watson's attention sharpens. So, in a way, the critics are right: Holmes is not capable of being anyone's Guide. He is, however, perfectly suited to be John Watson's.

His eyes have closed again. Watson bats them open. Holmes' empathy, kept so tightly controlled, has been allowed freedom, flitting about like a nervous bird. It is both amusing and endearing, loud enough to wake the rest of Watson's skin.

First, the bed gains solidity underneath him. Then the floor, scuffed and scratched. The books, the knick-knacks, the wardrobe. Finally, the walls, gradual yet staggering, as Watson fully realizes that he is in a physical, established space.

"Welcome back," Holmes says.

Watson grunts, rubbing his swollen eyes. He cannot recall the last time he had lost himself so thoroughly. His head is starting to ache from the strain.

"Close to an hour, I should say," his friend adds, "Shall I recite one of your lectures on the benefits of rest? There is one in particular that would suit incredibly well, from last October."

Well, at least Holmes listens to him somehow. "Very generous of you, but unnecessary."

"Are you certain?"

"Holmes."

Holmes' lips are quirked. The hand at last moves to his shoulder.

"Alright?"

Watson finds himself smiling. "Yes. Thank you."

"Of course, Watson. London would be devastated at the loss of her best doctor."

Watson huffs and begins unbuttoning his waistcoat. "There was something about the poison that smelled familiar. It was purple."

Holmes stares at something in Watson's collar. "Dark, or deep?"

Watson pauses to consider. "Deep."

Suddenly, Holmes is grinning. "You once described curare as having the same quality."

Curare. _Curare_. From the Blackwood case. Of _course_.

"It had something else—particles, lightning bugs," Watson says hastily, "If we—"

"If we put you to bed, all of Baker Street will breathe a sigh of relief."

"The murderer is still at large."

"At the moment," Holmes replies, pulling Watson's waistcoat the rest of the way, "But with your ingenuity, Doctor, he will shrink by tomorrow."

The empathic withdrawal is concise yet slow, a process perfected through strenuous trial and error. It is a compromise of Watson's design for his Guide's comfort. Holmes trusts him implicitly, but is not by nature an emotional being. But the foundation of their connection remains, whispering _calm_ and _safe_. Watson drinks it in and, at last, concedes to remove his shoes.

Although Holmes' anticipation for the new lead is palpable, he lies next to Watson on top of the covers, a testament to his worry. One of the appeals of Watson is his relative autonomy as a Sentinel. During the war, he had learned self-reliance by necessity, as Guides were exceedingly rare on the battlefield. He is a delightful anomaly of his kind. He does not zone to the point of catatonia.

"I'm fine, Holmes," Watson murmurs. But he does not loosen his hold around his Guide's waist.

"Of course you are," Holmes replies, "I was involved." His thumb grazes Watson's cheek. "Now, rest. Tomorrow, we catch a killer."

Yes. Tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> might fuck around and make this a series but I've learned from experience not to make these decisions after 3 am


End file.
